


The Peculiar Business Of The Manor House Club

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [36]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Victorian, France (Country), London, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Politics, Rescue, Slavery, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 05:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15212450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A truly shocking case in which, not for the first time in Sherlock's career, the evil slave trade once more rears its ugly head. Sherlock has to use some questionable methods to ensure justice, but fortunately history is on his side.





	The Peculiar Business Of The Manor House Club

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majesticduxk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesticduxk/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

'Eighty-Eight was one of my brother Sherlock's busiest years, and seven of the adventures that he and Watson undertook during it were subsequently published. Three of these - _The Valley Of Fear, The Noble Bachelor_ and _The Yellow Face_ \- happened in quick succession following their return from the difficult familial events in Hampshire, and Sherlock was engaged on the fourth ( _The Greek Interpreter_ ) when the next adventure that I am now at liberty to publish happened. It once again showed a darker side to our great metropolis, and the lengths to which people who have or are given power will far too often go.

I shall have to be having words with Someone about getting their own 'length' out in the sitting-room. Some time. Eventually. Who am I kidding?

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

One of the many advantages to having Holmes as a friend was that it solved a small but potentially expensive societal problem for me. As a doctor who treated some of the people in 'high society' ( _not_ coincidentally some of my slowest payers!), it was considered only fitting that I should boast a membership of at least one of London's top gentlemen's clubs. Had I not been able to fulfill that requirement, I very much doubt that many of them would have continued to use my offices - which was all well and good, except the fees for being a member of these establishments were frankly eye-watering, and my already grumbling bank-manager would have had a conniption had I started paying them.

Holmes, fortunately, solved that problem for me as he had the highest class of membership at three clubs, and at two of them (the exception being his brother's Diogenes Club) that included the right to associate membership for a number of gentleman friends. Hence I was able to have two illustrious names on my 'Doctor John H. Watson, M.D.' cards and to talk to my patients about them as if I did not only go to each of them once in a blue moon. 

It was a cold day in early spring when I was called out to old Lord Montgomery who had collapsed during a game of cards at the Manor House Club, a very plush establishment (not one of mine) on the banks of the River Thames in Chelsea. The doorman had looked at me most pityingly and had been openly disbelieving that I was a doctor capable of treating someone in _his_ great establishment. Fortunately I was eventually admitted, and the nobleman needed little more than some reassurance and some stomach powders.

I thought nothing more of the matter until two days later, when a Sergeant Josiah Smith called round to Baker Street. His beat, Holmes told me when his card came up, was in the East End, so he was some way from home. I also recalled that my friend had mentioned him admiringly before, and had expressed surprise that he had gained his recent promotion despite his skin colour. Most Londoners were not that racist, but it was my own experience that those in the upper reaches of society tended to be a lot less tolerant than those lower down.

When the sergeant came in I was no longer surprised at his success. He was absolutely huge, at least six and a half foot tall and muscular to boot. I noted that he sat down with some care in our fireside chair which was, after all, built only to accommodate regular sized _homo sapiens_.

“You were seen entering the Manor House Club the other day, doctor”, he said. I looked at him curiously.

“I had to treat a patient there”, I said, wondering what this was all about. “Why do you ask?”

The sergeant hesitated.

“It may be something or nothing”, he said, “but there's a few fellows from my the West Indies that live along the riverside in Stepney. I know Eddy, one of them; he's a constable in the area next to mine. He came to me yesterday about that club and he thinks something's rum about it.”

I wondered as to why an East Ender would be concerned about a West End club. Indeed I sometimes thought that the two parts of London functioned almost as two separate cities. Three if one included the Surrey parts south of the Thames.

“'Rum' how?” Holmes asked.

“The past year, three of his neighbours just left without telling anyone”, Sergeant Smith said. “And the odd thing; they were all young single men. The last of them, Ben, mentioned he'd been offered a job at the Manor House Club, just days before he left. The house was all sold and proper, but Eddy says that wasn't like him.”

“Someone is kidnapping black men from the East End?” I said dubiously. “To what end?”

“That's the weird thing”, Sergeant Smith said, scratching his gleaming bald pate (it was so bright that it actually shone!). “I wanted to talk to Mr. Holmes here about it because – well, my own bosses think the odd black man going missing is not really a problem.”

I winced at such an attitude, much as I suspected the sergeant was quite right in his appraisal.

“What is the problem?” Holmes asked our friend.

“I was told that it was something peculiar”, the sergeant said. “All I know is that the local lads at Chelsea station aren't allowed inside even if a crime's been reported. They have to get permission from somewhere first.”

“Ah”, Holmes said knowingly. I glared at him.

“Please explain”, I said, not at all testily. He chuckled.

“The Manor House Club must be the 'peculiar' that I once read existed in West London”, he said. “It is normally a church term, but here it refers to a part of England that is not legally England.”

Well that cleared things up - not! He smiled at my obvious annoyance.

“The Club was founded over a hundred years ago by a Mr. James Trevor, who claims descent from the Norman family the Trévières”, he explained. “He was later ennobled as Earl of Trévières; his great-grandson John is the current earl, although the Club is run by his brother-in-law Mr. David Adams. Presumably at some time in the past the land where the club stands was made a possession of the family as vassals of someone other than the King of England. The charter must never have been revoked so therefore it is legally not part of England.”

“So a part of Chelsea is French?” I asked, surprised. 

“Maybe”, he said. “Its questionable legal status means that the police have to tread warily, especially given the difficult situation in France just now.”

That was all too true, I thought. It was not that long since German troops had marched through Paris and the once-mighty French nation been utterly humiliated by the new power in Europe, Bismarck's Germany, losing the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine to the latter. There had been some suggestions of a warming in Anglo-French relations since then, which any mishandling of this matter would not help. 

“You think the nob himself is involved?” Sergeant Smith asked. Holmes shook his head. 

“The earl is a member of the Privy Council, and a most honourable and philanthropic gentleman”, he said. “No, whatever is going on at the club that bears his name I am sure that he has no part of it. But he may be important to remedying matters, if they need remedying. Thank you for bringing this to our attention, sergeant. I shall look into it.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Sergeant Smith had barely left when we had a second visitor. A rather surprising one.

“Mycroft”, Holmes said coolly. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Readers of my stories will know that I had only just been introduced to Mr. Mycroft Holmes as part of the adventure later known as _The Greek Interpreter_ which was happening at the same time as this one. I was therefore slightly skeptical of Holmes' use of the word 'pleasure'.

“You are making inquiries into the Manor House Club”, Mr. Mycroft Holmes said abruptly. 

“I shall be”, Holmes said.

“You must cease them.”

“Why?”

I bit back a smile. Although we had only met once, I had quickly come to the opinion that the elder Holmes very much expected to always get things his own way. Which with my friend as his younger brother, I felt would end in disappointment for him more often than not.

“Two ministers are members of that club”, our visitor said. “You should not stick your nose in where it is not wanted.”

“I dare say that the criminals that I have helped secure convictions against felt much the same way”, Holmes said coolly. “Try again.”

“It is none of your concern”, his brother said loftily. Holmes smiled knowingly.

“Ah, but you must be wrong there, brother”, he said. “You would not be here so swiftly if there was not something very irregular occurring at that establishment. And now.... I am _curious!”_

Mr. Mycroft Holmes scowled at him, then at me for some reason before huffing and making a dignified exit. 

“He would not try anything against you?” I asked worriedly. Holmes shook his head.

“Not that he would not like to”, he said. “But as I said before, he knows that if anything happened to me and it was over a matter that could in any way be traced back to him, then the wrath of God would be as nothing compared to the wrath of Mother!”

I smiled at that.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

I was not that surprised when, the following day, Holmes mentioned that he had called in at the offices of Middleton's.

“I thought that I would likely need their help in resolving this affair at the Manor House Club”, he said. “Miss Richards has certain contacts that are quite useful, at times like this. For example, she told me rather a lot about the earl's brother-in-law Mr. Adams, the proprietor of the establishment.”

“A criminal?” I asked. Holmes shook his head.

“As our friend Lestrade says, cynically but accurately, nobility like him are too wily to do what is actually criminal”, he said. “No, he skates around the edge of the law but does not fall in.”

“Sounds like he needs a good push!” I said, trying to lighten the mood. Holmes stared at me.

“Yes”, he said slowly. “Maybe he does.”

I had the distinct impression that I had said something important, which was inevitably followed by the realization that any chance of my knowing what was so important was about as remote as the Dog Star. No change there, then.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

In the days that followed Holmes did not seem to be doing much as regards the Manor House Club. I was therefore surprised when, shortly after his return one day, we had a visitor, Mr. David Adams. He was a tall, balding fellow in his fifties, and like Holmes' brother Mycroft clearly someone used to getting his own way by the disdainful manner in which he looked at first me and then our rooms.

“They say that you are a consulting detective”, he said, sounding dubious as to that fact.

“I am”, Holmes said equably. “In what capacity may I be of service, sir?”

There was the faintest hint of our visitor's own disdain in my friend's tone, and Mr. Adams was clearly unused to getting his own attitude thrown back at him. He scowled but continued.

“I am being followed”, he said. “I went to the police, they said that they could not spare an officer to monitor me twenty-four hours of the day. Apparently I must be attacked and done to death before they will actually lift a finger. So I have come to you.”

“Has your life been threatened?” Holmes asked.

“No”, the man admitted, “but there is a man following me wherever I go.”

“Can you describe this 'man'?” Holmes asked.

“It is a different darkie every time”, our visitor said. “They all look alike to me.”

I winced inwardly. The man had done himself no favours at all with that attitude.

“So a different person is following you each time, and the only connection is that they are a.... the colour of their skin?” Holmes asked. “It does not exactly sound threatening, sir. In a city of a million or more people, the odds on someone of that skin colour being in the same areas as yourself are quite high.”

“Maybe if I lived in the East End, perhaps”, our visitor said. “But I can tell you, the number of darkies around Chelsea is bloody damn few. Yet suddenly they are all after me!”

Holmes frowned.

“Have you done something that would warrant such an interest?” he asked.

“Of course not!”

There was the briefest of pauses before he answered. Holmes shook his head.

“I serve clients from all levels of society”, he said, “but the one thing I expect from them is absolute honesty. You would not call on the services of Watson here and tell him only half your symptoms, then expect an accurate diagnosis. Unless you are completely honest with me sir, then you are wasting my time as well as your own.”

“I can see that!” our visitor said testily. “You have not heard the last of this, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

With a curl of the lip he was gone. I stared after him, worried.

“Can he do anything against you?” I asked. Holmes shook his head.

“He is all bluster”, he said. “He is only in charge of the Club because his noble brother-in-law, in a rare moment of ill-judgement, wanted to give him something to do. Still, I think that it is time that we brought this matter to a head. I shall regrettably have to call on the offices of Mr. Khrushnic as only he can obtain what I need.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“A body!”

I blinked in surprise.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Holmes looked even more tired than usual over breakfast that morning, and I noted that he devoured Mrs. Hudson's offerings ravenously.

“Are you going into the surgery today?” he asked.

“I am not scheduled to”, I said, “although I suppose that I may get a call in. Why?”

“I am expecting someone here at around mid-day”, he said, and he seemed oddly unsure, which unnerved me slightly. “I would be grateful if you could be here to treat him.”

“Do you know what is wrong with him?” I asked. He thought for a moment before answering.

“Only that he will be in exceptionally poor physical condition”, he said. “Indeed, his mental needs will doubtless match or even exceed his physical ones. I have a place for him to go to recover in the days ahead, but he will need some remedial work done on him today.”

“I shall be here when he comes”, I promised.

He smiled at me.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

My patient, whoever he was, arrived later than expected, and it was not until two o'clock that there was a knock at the door. Holmes went to open it, and outside stood two men, a tall black man and a shorter white one. Holmes handed a coin to the white man who thanked him and left, then he ushered the black man into the room. It was only when he came into the light of the window that I saw his true state.

I nearly retched.

“This is Mr. Benton Hope”, Holmes said quietly. “Do what you can for him, doctor. Sergeant Smith and his friend Mr. Bell will be here in about an hour.”

I fought down my nausea and ushered the man over to the screen, bidding him disrobe. Even clothed it was clear that he had suffered severe physical torture of the worst type imaginable. Whilst he was getting ready, I poured myself a strong drink and followed it down with a second. I had a third ready as well.

I shall not further disturb the reader by graphically describing the poor man's broken body, safe to say that he must have been subjected to almost every physical abuse possible. How his frame, which in normal times must have been quite impressive, had not broken under such stress I did not know. Holmes had pointedly absented himself in his room but he had left the door open so that we both knew that he was there. I was able to cleanse and make a start on healing the man's wounds, but he would indeed require many weeks away from 'civilization' to even begin to recover from his ordeal. What chilled me almost as much as his physical condition was the utter lifelessness in his eyes, as if he no longer cared about life.

Time passed much quicker that I had suspected, and I was still applying ointment to some cuts on the poor man's face when there was a second knock at the door. Sergeant Smith appeared with what was presumably his and my patient's friend Mr. Bell. The latter almost fell over his feet as he blundered into the room, and saw his friend's almost naked body.

I hope never again to see a grown man cry.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“But how did you manage it?” I asked, as the three of us drove in a cab down to the Chelsea. The three men had gone to the hospital that Holmes had chosen for poor Mr. Hope, out in the Essex countryside near the Epping Forest where he would have all the time that he needed to recover. I knew instinctively that Holmes must be paying for this himself; there was surely no way someone on Sergeant Smith's salary could have afforded such care.

“It seemed clear that, for some reason, someone at the Manor House Club was abducting young black men”, Holmes said. “I told Mr. Khrushnic that I needed Mr. Hope to be removed from the club for a case that I was working on knowing that Mr. David Adams, whilst he himself eschewed any open criminality, would know whom not to annoy. Mr. Adams logically assumed that Mr. Hope had committed some _faux pas_ that had upset Mr. Khrushnic and would soon be taking a terminal dip in the Thames. Instead he and his friends will soon be recovering at their own pace from their terrible ordeal.”

“Friends?” Sergeant Smith said sharply. Holmes nodded gravely.

“It is not just your friend Eddy's road, I am afraid”, he said darkly. “The Manor House Club has in the past year or so extracted some sixteen black men from the East End for the sole purpose of torturing and abusing them.”

“But why?” I asked, mystified. “What could have driven them to such a foul and unnecessary act?”

“You are forgetting that for some of these men the slave trade was abolished in their living memory”, Holmes said. “And as we see from certain Mohammedan countries around the world, many people still see the act of demeaning and abusing those of a different skin complexion as some sort of God-given right. But for the vile scum at the Manor House Club that 'right' ends now!”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

I do not think that I have seen as many policemen on one street since the celebrations the previous year to mark Her Majesty's Golden Jubilee. The burly doorman at the Club was brushed aside and the matter was over in minutes. I found myself with Holmes, Sergeant Smith, a black man called Mr. Septimus Blake (suited and in very good condition, I noted) and a very angry Mr. David Adams in the latter's plus offices.

“This is an invasion of my rights!” he stormed. “The English police service have no right to enter foreign soil. I shall be communicating with the French government over this!”

Holmes sighed.

“It is a most fortunate thing that you are as ignorant historically as you are ideologically”, he sighed. “The French government has no jurisdiction here. Given the somewhat irregular circumstances they were as a matter of politeness informed earlier today of the planned sequence of events, and they have given their consent to our actions. Not that we needed it.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Adams demanded.

“Well”, Holmes said, “the 'peculiar' status of the land on which this Club stands was confirmed in a charter issued by King Henry the Sixth – or at least his guardians – in the year fourteen hundred and thirty-four.”

“So?”

“So”, Holmes said patiently, as if he were instructing a slow schoolboy, “the wording of the charter states that the land becomes the property not of the King of France, but the titular Duke of Normandy. At that moment in history, Normandy had - briefly as events turned out - returned to English rule. And as we all know, that title is current held by the queen as ruler of the bailiwicks of Jersey and Guernsey. She has graciously granted her permission for your cousin the earl to sell this land and to use the money for somewhat better causes. On the other hand you and your accomplice here will be shortly enjoying somewhat less salubrious accommodation courtesy of the local jail.”

“We did nothing wrong”, Mr. Blake scowled.

“Deliberately luring away innocent young single black men so that you could abuse them in this foul way?” Holmes asked dryly.

“Do you think an English court would believe the word of a black man over a white one, Mr. Holmes?” Mr. Blake sneered.

Holmes sat back and smiled. I knew that look. He had something.

“Mr. Joseph Larkin.”

Sergeant Smith and I both looked as confused as we felt, but both Mr. Blake and Mr. Adams looked as if they had been pole-axed. Holmes turned to us.

“As Mr. Blake so rightly says, proof is a difficult thing”, he said. “And English juries are quite right in demanding a high standard of it before passing the harshest sentences. So for the past couple of weeks the Club has enjoyed the free services of a budding young photographer, who had been providing its members with pictorial evidence of their 'achievements'. And for every photograph, _there is a negative.”_

Mr. Blake moved to strike my friend but Sergeant Smith moved faster that I would have thought possible with his bulk and floored the other man with a single punch to the jaw.

“That felt good!” he said. “Even if I may have broken something.”

“Doctor?” Holmes smiled.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
